


the tyger & the lamb

by frankie_bell



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Family Drama, Fix-It, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Past Rape/Non-con, fuck D&D
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23194732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankie_bell/pseuds/frankie_bell
Summary: She is both light and darkness, as are they all, but the flame is starting to flicker more and more, and each time it falters, Bran glimpses a terrible fate—children shrieking as their mothers shield them from the yawning fire, ashes raining like snow from a cloudless grey sky, the plunge of a dagger, blood trickling from an open mouth, and him, a crippled young man, once Brandon Stark of Winterfell, blank-faced and crowned, a king of knowledge and composure, feeling nothing.Following the Battle of Winterfell, Bran and Daenerys share a conversation that could change everything.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 34
Kudos: 86





	the tyger & the lamb

_Fire made flesh._

That’s what the men in Essos whisper about Daenerys Targaryen, but right now, standing in the quiet of the Godswood, her silvery hair and white face rinsed in moonlight, Bran can only see the Goddess of Winter—a living, breathing embodiment of the terrible beauty from Old Nan’s stories.

Since becoming the Three-Eyed Raven, he’s seen much of the Dragon Queen’s life, from her rape and defilement at the hands of Khal Drogo, to her liberation of Slaver’s Bay, to her fated journey across the Narrow Sea. He’s seen her cry alone in a desert camp, dry blood clinging to her thighs as she stares fixedly at her stone children, furiously willing them into existence. He’s seen her finger the collars of former slave, eyes filled with rage and hatred, a temper befitting the last daughter of her house. He’s seen her burn men to piles of ash with utter conviction, watched them float away on the breeze while she tilts her head and quirks her brow, curious. He’s seen her move over his brother in the dark stateroom of her ship, tiny teeth catching on his ear, her voice steady as she whispers words of love and loyalty that choke Jon with a sense of belonging he never dreamed he’d know. He’s seen her fall from her dragon and keep fighting, seen her weep over the cold body of her oldest friend, seen her mask of serenity slip as she sits in the crowded hall where those who call her “foreign whore” raise cups to her nephew’s bravery. 

She is both light and darkness, as are they all, but the flame is starting to flicker more and more, and each time it falters, Bran glimpses a terrible fate—children shrieking as their mothers shield them from the yawning fire, ashes raining like snow from a cloudless grey sky, the plunge of a dagger, blood trickling from an open mouth, and him, a crippled young man, once Brandon Stark of Winterfell, blank-faced and crowned, a king of knowledge and composure, feeling nothing. 

A twig snaps beneath the wheel of his chair, and Daenerys whirls to face the noise, cracks of sadness disappearing as the royal mask falls seamlessly back in place.

“Lord Stark,” she says, voice neutral, though her hackles are clearly raised. 

Bran doesn’t waste time on niceties. “You didn’t come to pray.”

“No,” Daenerys replies with a cagey smile, “I didn’t. I don’t put much faith in the gods.”

Bran nods, then wheels himself beneath the weirwood tree, close enough to reach out and grab her hand, if he were so inclined. "Faith in oneself is the more logical choice.”

For several sweeping seconds, they sit in silence, the stirring of dead leaves on the frigid wind the only sound. Then, “You’re unhappy here.” 

More silence and a pointed look from Daenerys.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Bran assures her. “I already know. Though I’m a stranger to you, Your Grace, you’re no stranger to me.” 

“Perhaps not,” Daenerys says, the leather of her gloves squeaking as she wrings her hands. Bran knows she’s aware of his sight, can tell it makes her uncomfortable. After a lifetime of exposure and betrayal, her need to erect walls is understandable, even if he can no longer grasp the fear behind it. “But I am the foreign whore trying to strip the North of its independence.”  
  
“That’s what many people think, yes.”

“Your sister’s ire doing nothing to dissuade them, I’m sure.”

Bran smiles knowingly. “She has no love for you, it’s true.” He pauses to adjust the blanket over his lap, then adds, “Though you want her to. I saw the way you spoke with Jon on the ship, the way you asked about his family. You say you don’t need friends here, but you do want them.”

Daenerys’s eyes widen faintly, but she recovers with a huff, her breath a silver mist to match her hair. “What I _want_ is respect. Without my armies and my dragons, there would be no North. Thousands of my men died so that you could live, and still we’re unwelcome.” When Bran doesn’t respond, just stares blankly ahead, she continues, “Besides, I’m the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. Westeros is my home. I was born here, same as you. The only difference is, I didn’t have the luxury of a fancy keep or a formal education. While you and your siblings slept in feather beds and ate hot meals, I starved in the streets, terrified some faceless man would slit my throat the moment I stopped looking for him.”

“I’m sorry,” Bran says, his mind clouded with fragments of her childhood, the image of a small girl with bruised wrists and boney shoulders, the sound of soft crying in the dead of night, muffled to avoid being punished. If he closes his eyes and concentrates hard enough, he can almost feel her gnawing hunger—for food, affection, acceptance, revenge. “The sentence passed on you for your father’s crimes was cruel and unjust.”

“Yet your people still wish to carry it out.”

Bran doesn’t answer. There’s no need. “They call you Mhysa in Essos, and your dragons are as good as children to you,” he says instead.

Daenerys’s mouth hardens. She’s clearly vexed by the swift change in subject. “Believe it or not, there are many who don’t fear me.” 

Again, no answer. They both know she speaks true. 

“My father used to say ruling was like having thousands of children,” Bran states, his chest suddenly seized by a long-forgotten ache. Buried beneath millions of memories that aren’t his own, fondness for Ned Stark stirs. It feels like trying to hear a voice on the shore with your head buried beneath the waves. “He’d lay awake at night worrying after each and every soul in the North, regardless of whether they thanked him for it. They were safe. He never asked for more.”

Daenerys turns away at this, and for a moment, Bran thinks she’s about to storm off. When she looks to him again, her face is surprisingly open, vulnerable in a way he’s only seen it in the company of Jon and Ser Jorah.

“Ruling will always take more than it gives,” he continues, and her eyes crease in pained resignation. The peace Daenerys has longed for all her life won’t be found this side of the Narrow Sea. At least not yet. Perhaps once the people see an echo of all he’s glimpsed, perhaps never. “Still, a true mother loves her children even when they refuse to love her back.”

“And is that what you suggest I do as ruler? Love those who despise me?”

Despite her council’s claims to the contrary, the Dragon Queen is quite a good listener—attentive, often willing to bend—and it’s clear she wants to listen now.

“I would never presume to tell you,” he replies, parroting Jon’s old words with careful intensity.

A brief flicker of melancholy softens Daenerys’s brow before darkness takes hold, and she says, “They’ll throw me over in an instant when they learn they can have him.”

Her words trigger Bran’s sight, and within the space of a heartbeat, Winterfell is gone, the sticky heat of Essos invading every nook and crevice.

A serpentine tower cloaked by black-barked trees and inky leaves. Rubies flowing like blood from an open chest. A fragrant blue rose growing strong within a chink of ice. Words spoken in whispers so soft, one can barely hear them.

_Three treasons you will know… once for blood and once for gold and once for love._

“Yes,” Daenerys replies flatly, her gaze failing to show even a hint of surprise. “For a long time, I didn’t know what it meant— _who_ it meant.” She takes a moment to chew her mouth unthinkingly, then steals herself and says, “Bastard or no, I would have made your brother King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Would have?” Bran questions.

Daenerys scowls, obviously resenting his approach, likely assuming he thinks her a fool, though nothing could be further from the truth. “He’s disgusted by me, as I suspect you already know.”

Bran’s smile is not unkind. “I’m sure it seems that way to you.”

“But you see otherwise?”

“I see everything,” he replies, and the wind howls indulgently. 

“Thank you for your counsel, Lord Stark,” she begins, but Bran cuts her off with a quiet, “I’m not a lord, Your Grace. Not anymore.”

“Well then,” Daenerys corrects, her tone somehow detached and tangled all at once, “thank you, Brandon Stark of Winterfell. Truly.”

Bran is silent as she walks away, her boots no longer rough atop the freshly fallen snow. Though his back is turned, he can feel her mouth surrender to the pull of a soft smile, and he knows—deep in his bones—that all is not lost.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so… I’ve been a huge _ASoIaF_ and _GoT_ fan for years, and like the rest of the planet, I was beyond hyped for S8. I watched the first three episodes as they aired and was quite pleased (minus a few nitpicks), but missed the last few for my travel abroad program. When I saw the overwhelmingly negative response, I figured it would be best to remember the show as it was, not as it ended, because damn, that shit sounded awful! Fast forward to coronavirus quarantine, and here I find myself having opened Pandora’s Box. I wish I could put those last four episodes back in, but alas, I cannot. My way of coping? Write a story, of course! Because Daenerys deserved better, and Bran did nothing. 
> 
> As always, if you enjoyed this fic, please leave a comment or kudos. Like all writers, I love hearing from my readers, and fan engagement really does keep me going. Thanks for reading!


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